


It Started With A Wronski Feint

by katmarajade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coffee, Community: teddyfest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Libraries, M/M, Quidditch, Research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmarajade/pseuds/katmarajade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a Wronski Feint.  Everything always did in Viktor Krum's world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Started With A Wronski Feint

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Extroverted, outgoing Teddy matches beautifully with introverted, quiet Viktor.
> 
> Contains: Grouchy, taciturn Bulgarians; ridiculously colorful clothing; and teeth-rottingly sugary coffee drinks.

It started with a Wronski Feint. Everything always did in Viktor Krum's world. 

His parents met when his fast-flying, Quidditch-playing mother dove sharply down into a crowd of lazy park picnic-goers and pulled up in a perfect Wronski Feint at the very last second, scaring the pants off his father, a quiet man whose nose was always stuck in a book. 

Viktor's first memory was of being held tightly to his mother's chest as she flew him through a series of maneuvers culminating in a Wronski Feint and solidifying forever his love of flight. 

It started with a Wronski Feint. A scout saw him pull out of an impossible dive, his large nose almost touching the grass. Two years later, the day he turned seventeen, he was signed to the Vratsa Vultures and soon admitted to the roster of the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team. 

The end of his career, fittingly enough, began with a Wronski Feint as well. It was his signature move—few could pull it off at all, much less with the grace, athleticism, and sheer _style_ that Viktor Krum did. But after fifteen years in the limelight, fifteen years of death-defying dives, unbelievable upshots, and impossible catches, Viktor's body gave out and he botched a Wronski Feint. 

He was only thirty-two years old, still young, especially by wizarding standards, but it was enough. He was still fitter than fit and still had better, quicker instincts than almost anyone. He was fast, agile, and flew with a natural ease and grace that cannot be taught. He was still better than almost everyone else, but he was no longer what he'd been. 

Like with all his life choices, he announced to the public in his typical surly, matter-of-fact monotone that he was retiring. Then he turned around and shuffled off, seemingly oblivious to the hordes of fans, coaches, teammates, and reporters who were stunned into blubbering idiocy. Viktor didn't care. Never had before either. 

Despite their overwrought protests that the public deserved an explanation, he offered none. So they made up their own, each more far-fetched and ridiculous than the last. And while they were busy creating tall tales and scandals, Viktor Krum disappeared. 

Viktor ensconced himself in his personal library after his abrupt departure from the public eye. At first he'd simply devoured the texts, using his ample funds to purchase hundreds of volumes. Books ranging from new theories of Transfiguration to Muggle books on the physics of flight. He bought literary classics and trashy Bulgarian romance novels and treatises on the treatment of House Elves in Thailand and books on religions, sciences, spells, history, and, of course, flying. 

He read about brooms and Quidditch, about physics and gravity, about aviation and airplanes, about Muggles who jumped out of planes at 5000 meters for sport—without magic! 

And when he'd read everything he could on the subject, he wanted more. So he set out to write about what he knew best: flying. 

His first book combined the physics he'd gleaned from Muggle texts with the magical understanding of flight and his own personal observations from years spent in the skies. It hit stores eight years to the day after his mysterious disappearance and became an international magical best seller, flying off shelves all over Europe with the speed of a particularly snappy Summoning Charm. 

There were very few people who could have convinced him to leave his home, his library, his world, and agree to come to the big, smoggy, crowded metropolis of London. Hermione Granger-Weasley was one of them. 

She appeared at his home, politely and charmingly accepted his hospitality (knowing that he'd be offended if she didn't) and then with typical dogged determination, launched into a series of reasons why he needed to come back to London and review the International Quidditch Rule Book. Her arguments were good and valid, but it was the "Please, Viktor. I really need your help," quietly tacked onto the end that made his decision. 

She'd been promoted to the Head of International Magical Law, reporting directly to the Minister of Magic. Several recent incidents involving professional and school-aged Quidditch players had resulted in death and serious injury, which had the community up in arms. The International Quidditch Board insisted that the rules were age-old and should not be altered because of a couple of bad turns. An increasingly vocal group of Quidditch Mums were rabble-rousing and demanding that certain "archaic" plays from the rule book be deleted, additional penalties be enforced, and, most importantly, the prohibition of the Wronski Feint, the formerly rare move that Viktor himself had made famous and commonplace. Apparently it had been attempted with increasing frequency since his retirement, as other Seekers had tried to imitate the "Legend of Krum" (so dubbed by _Quidditch Weekly_ ), and it had caused more injuries and deaths in the last five years than any other maneuver in Quidditch history. 

There were violent protests breaking out over the suggested changes. One thing was certain: the rule book needed an update. It needed to be re-organized, simplified, and consolidated so that there were not eighteen nearly identical rules about Stooging and three utterly contradictory rules on Blumphing. The trouble lay in who should make the revisions, because everyone seemed to have their own agenda. 

Hermione needed help. She needed someone who wouldn't be bullied or swayed by the press, who were out for blood. She needed someone who could research quickly and effectively, someone who actually understood the law _and_ the intricacies of the enormous and complicated Quidditch Rule Book. She needed someone who truly understood flying—the good and the bad, the danger and the excitement, the realities and the possibilities. 

Having grown a bit bored of his day-to-day tedium, chuffed to be needed for his brains and not just his skill on a broomstick, and perhaps still a bit too easily swayed by Hermione's powers of persuasion, he moved to London, taking a flat indefinitely until the situation could be resolved properly. 

And it didn't escape his notice that the Wronski Feint was the catalyst behind the entire thing. 

Somehow, bafflingly, Viktor had lost his copy of _The Development of Quidditch Dives Throughout the Nineteenth Century_ between Vratsa and London. As unperturbed as ever by his glowering, Hermione briskly sent him off to the main branch of the British Magical Library in downtown London to find a copy. 

He walked in for the first time and knew instantly that he belonged there. The old architecture, the dim lighting, the quiet and almost tomb-like feel, the wonderfully musty smell of old books, and stacks of tightly-packed shelves as far as the eye could see. 

After a bit of wandering he found the book he was looking for, along with a large stack of others, and settled at a quiet table to read. 

It was during his second day there that he met the new library assistant. Viktor was settled at the same square table as the day before and surrounded by stacks of books, some his own, some borrowed from the shelves. He was perusing the convoluted mess of laws and regulations pertaining to Quidditch, flying in any form, broomsticks, and their uses and regulations. 

He was, of course, reading a section about the Wronski Feint when his silence was interrupted by a loud crash as someone ran into his table, fell to the ground with an almost comical amount of flailing, and set an entire pile of his books teetering. 

With a harsh _Stupendo Momentum_ , he kept the books from burying the ridiculously colorful culprit alive. A young man about twenty years old with sandy brown hair and startlingly blue eyes blinked up at Viktor, as if confused as to how he had found himself on the library floor. 

"Oh, blast! I'm so sorry! I got completely distracted by this new book and, well, I'm so sorry to have disturbed you! I know how annoying it is when you get pulled out of your reading like that and what are you working on here? Quite the haul you've got!"

He leaped up as if used to pulling himself off floors and half-heartedly brushed off his magenta trousers and turquoise jumper. Viktor stared at the rainbow of chattering energy in front of him blankly. 

"Magical laws and addenda … dating back more than a hundred and sixty years! My word, you have a lot to sort through! Oooh, and Muggle aeronautics and oh! Is that _Berses Guide to Broomstick Modifications_? My godfather got that one for me a few years back, another attempt to lure me into a deeper love of the game by getting me excited about the spellwork behind it or something."

The young man pushed at his thick-rimmed glasses and grinned brightly. Viktor noticed the shiny, obviously brand-new name tag that identified him as "Teddy, Library Assistant In Training". 

Teddy chattered on, not exactly oblivious to Viktor's lack of response but unconcerned. Viktor couldn't completely keep the sliver of a smirk from playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Anyway, I think that I need a cup of coffee, so I'm off to the café. Again, sorry to disturb you. Good luck with your research. It looks fascinating."

"Coffee?" said Viktor, the first non-spell word he's spoken during the entire five-minute-long exchange. 

"Yeah! It's on the lower level near the Returns and Acquisitions desk. Have you been down there?"

Somehow Viktor found himself at the small library café with the brightly-dressed library assistant, who ordered some sugar and chocolate-laden concoction that in no way resembled the "coffee" he'd referred to earlier. 

Teddy continued to chatter excitedly about all manner of things—from the newly remodeled East Wing, to which of the café employees made the best espresso, to the lemon scones that were only available on Thursdays and always sold out early, to a new Wizengamot ruling about werewolf bloodlines. 

Viktor was surprised to find that he enjoyed the fast-paced, often witty ramblings. Usually he despised having to listen to people fill silences with complete verbal rubbish and inanity, but for as much as Teddy talked, there was a strange logic to what he said. His babble was not just to fill up space. 

Similarly, Teddy seemed to understand without explanation that Viktor was, in his own way, very much engaged in the conversation. Unlike some people who could speak comfortably to a bit of carpeting for hours on end and were annoyingly oblivious to their companions' boredom, Teddy seemed to watch Viktor's face, picking up on what topics interested him, noticing what jokes made his ubiquitous glower ease a smidge, and which ideas were met with skepticism or disinterest. And Teddy seemed to be able to read Viktor's mind, answering questions or responding to thoughts that had flitted through Viktor's mind but he'd not voiced. 

It was a meeting of the minds. 

After that day, Teddy appeared constantly. He showed up at Viktor's usual table, sometimes bringing a fresh cup of coffee, always dark, black, and murky-strong, just how Viktor liked it. Sometimes Teddy fell over himself in his rush to show Viktor a new book he'd discovered. Sometimes he'd pop over just to ask a question about flying or a particular Charm he'd read about or Bulgarian politics. 

Viktor became accustomed to their routine. For the first time in ages, he looked forward to seeing someone else. He felt useful when he could answer a question. He felt flattered when Teddy went out of his way to find him books that Viktor knew very well were difficult to track down. His mind felt engaged and interested in something else, in someone else, for the first time in a very long time. 

To the casual observer, they appeared opposite in every respect. 

Viktor was tall, dark-featured, and rarely smiled. 

Teddy was rather short with light hair and bright blue eyes and a perpetual smile. 

Teddy's ridiculously colorful ensembles were a stark contrast to Viktor's closet of black and dark brown jumpers and trousers. 

Viktor spoke softly, concisely, and only when he had something to say. Teddy couldn't shut up, rambling on and jumping with exhausting enthusiasm from topic to topic at mind-numbing speed. 

At first glance they seemed different in every possible way. But for all their differences, there were some strong similarities too. 

They were both bright, inquisitive, and analytical. Both were diligent and organized in their research, loved old books, coffee, and breakfast food at all hours of the day. They enjoyed mocking the _Daily Prophet_ and discussing literature. Both were fascinated by the law: past, present, Muggle, and Wizarding, and watching old Muggle action films while sipping scotch, neat.

Neither tolerated double talk, hypocrisy, or lies, and they shared a mutual dislike for smooth-talking, no-mind-of-their-own politicians who catered to popular opinion instead of thinking for themselves. And both had an embarrassing fear of Floo powder and a soft spot for Babbitty Rabbitty.

As weeks passed, the similarities became more and more apparent. They were still outwardly as different as could be. However, their differences, though pronounced, were unnervingly complementary. 

Teddy was a whirlwind of color in Viktor's monochromatic world. Viktor's life in recent years had consisted of black ink, brown leather books, and black coffee. 

Then came Teddy: vibrant, colorful, messy, all floppy brown hair that forever fell over unbelievably blue eyes. He was crooked smiles and candy and ridiculous chocolate-coconut drinks that in no way resembled the coffee that he claimed they contained. He was orange jumpers and light blue corduroys one day and bright yellow trousers and purple shirts the next, each day more of an eye-poppingly crazy combination than the last. He was chatter and ramble—constantly talking but unexpectedly analytical and organized in thought and meticulous in research. 

He was every single thing that Viktor wasn't, everything Viktor never liked, and yet … Viktor's belly performed a variety of twists and dives whenever the ridiculous, messy, colorful ball of energy smiled at him, that too-big, crooked smile that took up his whole face and crinkled his eyes into quarter moons. 

Their friendship developed rapidly. It started with research and progressed to coffee together once, twice, something three times a day. And then there came dinners, hole-in-the-wall Bulgarian restaurants so that Teddy could try some of Viktor's favorite foods; Spanakopita and plates full of olives when they got into a heavy debate about the influence of the ancient Greeks on modern Potions; Teddy's favorite curry chips after Viktor spent a mind-numbing day reading through hundreds of pages of the most tedious, dull, and brain-killingly boring list of long-winded, obscure, pointless, and nonsensical laws relating to Quidditch, rules that had nothing to do with the game like fans' robes being too brightly colored in winter months and the proper procedure for dealing with hail in springtime. 

Dinners became regular, though never planned or fancy, just a natural continuation of the day and a chance for further conversation. After dinner scotch became commonplace, because the discussions lasted long after the meal had been cleared and they both enjoyed a good single malt. 

Viktor grew used to the blindingly bright jumpers and mismatched socks, to the constant chatter, to the faint aroma of chocolate and old books and something minty that seemed to follow Teddy around. To the most vividly blue eyes that Viktor had ever seen, a constant swirl of cerulean, intelligence, and humor. To the interruptions and excitement. 

It was comfortable, easy, and good, something novel for Viktor, whose personal relationships were often stunted by his glowering demeanor and terse responses. Viktor understood Teddy. He learned to predict which Merlin-forsaken over-sweetened coffee drink that Teddy would choose based on what color his jumper was and what topics he hit upon on the way to the café. He learned to expect extra wild gesturing when Teddy talked about war, ninjas, or curry chips. He recognized annoyance or frustration when Teddy's eyebrows didn't move when he smiled. He could follow the convoluted logic behind Teddy's Firebolt-fast topic changes with practiced ease and even began to predict some of them. 

Despite all of that, he did not see it coming when Teddy leaned in one evening, after dinner, before drinks. Viktor stood stiffly in his rented flat, hands clenched around two glasses of scotch, and his eyes widened, dark and uncomprehending, as Teddy's brain-spinningly-blue eyes grew ever closer. 

"You realize that I'm going to kiss you now, don't you?" Teddy asked, his eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of apprehension. "So if you don't want this like I want this, if you don't think that this is something as amazing as I think it is, then you should step away right now, put away that pensive brow, and we'll just drink our scotch and keep talking about the proposed dragon reintroduction into Wales."

Teddy stared at Viktor, eyes bright and gentle as he studied Viktor's face carefully. Viktor's tight grip on the drinks eased, but he made no move to step away. Head tilting slightly, Teddy's hair flopped in his face and Viktor's eyes flicked over for a moment, amused and reassured by the familiarity of it, before darting back to meet Teddy's gaze, which inched ever-so-slowly closer. 

Perhaps he hadn't been expecting this, perhaps he was mad to get involved with someone so completely different from him, perhaps this was pure insanity, but for once Viktor found himself not caring about analyzing. Not caring about reason or logic or age or the potential unsuitability of colorful sugar addicts with big mouths and dizzying blue eyes. He _wanted_ this. _Needed_ it like he needed flying and oxygen and water. 

Teddy's face was so close that Viktor could feel the warmth of Teddy's breath on his skin, smell the faint hint of chocolate. Their lips met, hesitatingly at first, tentatively brushing together. Then Viktor leaned down, pressing more intently into Teddy's mouth, his brain working frantically trying to take in every detail of the moment. When Teddy's tongue touched his, his stomach performed a spectacular dive that could only be classified as a Wronski Feint. Viktor couldn't help but smile into the kiss, suddenly breathless, uncharacteristically giddy, and filled with a new surge of confidence. He tangled one hand into Teddy's messy mop of hair and ran the other softly down Teddy's arm, which was wrapped tightly around him. 

It always started with a Wronski Feint.


End file.
